


Sounds Fake But Okay

by refectory



Series: Kitchen Escapades [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Can be read as platonic but it wasn't intended that way, Fluff, HP: EWE, Harry is Trying Okay?, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Oblivious Draco, Pre-Slash, very pre-slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-02
Updated: 2016-09-02
Packaged: 2018-08-12 16:07:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7940752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/refectory/pseuds/refectory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Potter isn't rising to the occasion. Draco suspects foul play.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sounds Fake But Okay

**Author's Note:**

> Haha, what? Short one, may be apart of a series. Pre-slash.

Draco was in the middle of a midnight Potions essay when Blaise reached the height of impertinence.

“Put that rubbish away, we’re going out.” Blaise grandly announced, making no effort to muffle his voice. They had learned back in their first year that Vincent would sleep through a Goblin War. Blaise, being Blaise, used it to encourage his reckless midnight escapades — being almost entirely nocturnal himself. “Pansy is waiting for us in the Common Room. Best not keep her waiting, hm?”

Draco kept writing.

_The addition of the bloodroot acts as a catalyst for the hypnos flower, allowing the ingredient to properly assimilate with the—_

“Hey!” Draco snapped when Blaise snatched his quill. Chuckling, the dark-skinned boy danced out of his way, showcasing his prize triumphantly. “Salazar, Blaise, you’re a _bloody_ handful. Can’t you see that I’m _busy_?”

Blaise rolled his eyes. “You’re _always_ busy, dear boy,”

“I think you’ll find that the busy wizards are the ones who will make something of themselves once they leave the confines of this idiotic school,” Draco stood up and reached for his quill. Blaise snatched his hand back, grinning. Merlin, Draco hated when he got into moods like this. By day, Blaise was a sloth, yawning and sleeping with his eyes open in Charms. By night, however, he was an absolute menace, and full of energy to boot. Draco, being completely and utterly normal, thank you very _much_ , was always much too tired to play along with Blaise’s games at this time of the night.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Blaise.”

“You aren’t getting your bloody quill back until you come with Pansy and I to the kitchens.”

“ _Blaise._ ”

“I’m not letting you duck out of this one, Draco! You can’t spend all your free time doing _homework_ , of all things. It’s simply _dreadful_. Oh, the things the stress is doing to your youthful visage!”

“What would _you_ know about the negative consequences of doing homework?” Draco snapped, already resigned to being kidnapped but not willing to go down without fighting. “You’ve never handed in a single essay in all the time you’ve been at Hogwarts.”

Blaise, the absolute prat, pouted and said, “That never seems to bother _Slughorn_.”

Draco dedicatedly blows a breath out through his mouth. Blaise _knew_ Draco not being a part of the Slug Club was a direct hit to his pride, so naturally, he chose to parade it around like it was his birthright. “Slughorn is a blubbering _idiot_.”

“You’re only saying that because he isn’t charmed by you,”

“Yes, I am! I’m a charming person! I’m _the_ most charming person in Slytherin! How can he not like me? I’m _likeable._ ”

“That’s disputable,” Blaise said mildly, before grinning. “Come on, Draco. It’s only a trip to the kitchens. And don’t even think about saying you’re not hungry!” He cut in. Draco closed his mouth and squinted suspiciously. “Do you think I’m blind or dumb to not notice that you skip out on as many meals as possible under the guise of studying? Really, Draco.”

“I _am_ studying.” Draco replied, studiously avoiding eye contact.

“You’re avoiding the Great Hall.” Corrected Blaise, “You aren’t a terribly subtle person, Draco. Neither you _or_ Pansy are, for that matter. You’re lucky I don’t resent you for leaving me to eat my meals alone in that mess hall — I’m within my rights to do so.”

Draco almost opened his mouth to shoot that down. Then he remembers that, despite Blaise’s successful and rewarding strategy of keeping his head down and his views personal, a Slytherin is a Slytherin, and these days, being a snake is no longer a point of pride. Any Slytherin is fair game to the majority of the population — even carefully neutral Blaise wasn’t escaping unscathed.

Once again, Draco was reminded that he actually _liked_ Blaise, and scowled.

“It’s too cold for this,” Draco mumbled, spinning around to grab a scarf. He also pulled on a dark grey sweater over his uniform, which he hadn’t any time to change out of before he fell upon his Potions essay. “We won’t be gone long?” He tugged on his gloves — matching with his scarf, a Yule gift from Greg before . . . everything — and looked up at Blaise from under his lashes.

Blaise was looking far too pleased with himself. “We’ll be back in time for you to wake up for Transfiguration without looking dead, yes. Splendid, Draco!” He clapped his mitten’ed hands together. “You’re really making a brilliant decision.”

“Bugger off, Zabini,” Draco laughed, “before I change my mind and leave you to deal with Pansy alone.”

Blaise made a peculiar sound. “Yes, you’re right there, darling. She won’t be happy at all with how long I’ve made her wait.”

Draco nodded his head solemnly. “We’ll face her together.”

“You are a true friend, darling,”

“I wouldn’t speak so soon,”

They exited to dormitories together, pushing on the hidden panel that opened the wall in front of them to reveal their green-hued Common Room. Pansy sat cross-legged in front of the fire, decked out in a matching set of winter wear; a woollen sweater, hat, scarf and gloves. She was all but falling into the flames for warmth.

Her head snapped up at the slight grind of the wall sliding away. Her lips pursed at the sight of them, genial, when she was irritated. Her shrill voice cut across the distance between them with no effort at all.

“ _What_ ,” She hissed, smoothly rising to her feet and marching towards them. Blaise murmured something under his breath that made Draco bite back a smile. “ _Took you so long?_ Hm, Zabini? I’ve been waiting in the cold for _half an hour_!”

“You’re exaggerating.” Blaise waved his hand dismissively. Pansy’s nostrils flared and she opened her mouth to, surely, _hopefully_ , give Blaise a dressing down he’d remember, full of biting comments and Pansy’s unique form of sharp verbal jabs, when Blaise put his finger to her lips and said, “ _Shh,_ darling, we’re wasting moonlight. We should go to the kitchens now before it’s too late.”

“You’re the son of a Banshee, Blaise Zabini, you hear me?” Pansy snarled, stomping away with surprisingly nothing more to say.

This seemed to surprise and please Blaise. He turned his head to whisper, “I really didn’t think that would work,” to Draco.

Draco tilted his head and replied, “Well . . . you never do know with Pansy.”

“Quite right, darling, quite right.”

Pansy waited around the corner for them to catch up with her. As soon as Draco was in sight, she latched her arm around his and pressed her body up against him.

“So,” She drawled in a tone that meant _trouble_. “Draco. Darling, darling Draco.”

The pale-haired boy closed his eyes and sighed. “Pansy,” He said mildly.

“Thick-headed Darling Draco.”

“ _Yes,_ Pansy. I heard you the _first_ time.”

“Cowardly,” Pansy continued to sing, “Thick-headed Darling Draco!”

Merlin, Draco realized. She was planning to carry this on all night.

He didn’t want to learn if he could suffer through that.

“Is this punishment for me” — he sent a pointed look at Blaise, who was generously pretending to be on the lookout — “ _avoiding_ you lately? Because I _haven’t_ been. You’re operating on a false assumption.”

Pansy hummed and disagreed, “No, I don’t think I am,” She said, and then proceeded to methodically list every event where Draco had blatantly lied to slip out of her grip and ‘go off to brood by himself in a dark, condemned classroom’. The fact that she whispered the entire time did nothing to soften her verbal blows.

“—and I _do_ think it’s quite selfish of you to hide away from me when _I’m_ the ‘dreaded Slytherin witch to suggest giving up the Golden Boy to the Dark Lord himself’. I’m sure however bad _you_ have it is _nothing_ compared to how Potter’s groupies treat _me_ —”

They ascended another staircase.

Draco saw the fruit bowl painting and sagged in relief. “Oh look,” He chirped, “We’re here!” before wrenching his arm from Pansy’s grip and _sophisticatedly_ speed-walking towards the painting. Blaise sent him an amused look as he dashed by, and said something to Pansy that had them both chittering. Draco tickled the pear, before throwing open the door and falling into the kitchens.

The ugly little creatures swarmed him immediately. The Elves peered up at him with bulging eyes and hooked, bulbous noses. Draco hadn’t ever seen anything so ugly before. “Hello, sir! Oh—sirs and miss!” They chorused once Blaise and Pansy stepped through, arms linked together. “Would you be liking the Elves to make you something?”

When Blaise and Pansy were suspiciously quiet, Draco simply ordered, “Dinner,” for lack of any craving. He looked over his shoulder at his friends when they remained silent and squinted suspiciously. “What is the—” He began, only to face the front and stop.

_Oh._

“Oh.” Said Potter, sitting at a counter with a mug in his hand. His hair was a disaster. He was wearing thin, muggle-manufactured sleeping clothes, suspiciously clear eyed despite how exhausted he looked. Draco was willing to bet the fool hadn’t slept at all today, though he couldn’t imagine _why._

A House Elf apologized softly as it pushed past Draco.

It snapped him out of his stupor, and he scowled at Potter something fierce. “What are _you_ doing here?” He spat, rearing backwards like he was going to walk backwards until he eventually tripped out of the kitchen.

Potter raised his mug. “Hello to you as well, Malfoy,” He said, not the _least_ bit offended, before looking over Draco’s shoulder. He raised his eyebrows. “Zabini. Parkinson.”

Draco knew without looking that Pansy was tense like a coiled snake, deliberating whether or not she should put on a snooty face or whether she should hide behind Blaise completely. She was most likely frozen in place in her deliberation.

Blaise picked up her slack and greeted, neutrally, “Potter.”

There was a stilted silence.

Potter took a sip from his drink and sent the Slytherin’s a sidelong glance. “Couldn’t sleep?”

Draco’s lips pulled back from his teeth. “I don’t see how that’s any of _your_ business, _Potter._ ”

“Point.” Potter acknowledged, voice mild, and Draco drew in a shocked breath at the lack of reaction. Potter was the _easiest person Draco_ _knew_ to wind up. Scarhead had a hair-trigger temper as far as Draco was concerned — in fact, Draco privately _applauded_ himself on being the only one who could piss Potter off in under ten words. This — Potter acting like they weren’t the scum of the earth — _wasn’t how it was supposed to go_. “If you’re here for a midnight snack, you should ask for a slice of apple and rhubarb. They served it for desert tonight. Brilliant, it was.”

“I hate rhubarb.” Draco said coolly. It was a lie. He loved rhubarb, and Blaise and Pansy knew it too. “So, no.”

And Potter _shrugged. Again._

“Suit yourself,” He murmured into his cup as Draco stood there feeling inexplicably _robbed._ Potter then tipped his head back and sculled the contents of the mug, throat working as he chugged the rest of his beverage down. Draco swallowed, clenching and unclenching his fists, before Potter placed his mug on the counter and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Winky!”

A House Elf no prettier or uglier than the rest of its species scrambled forward to collect the mug.

“Was Master Harry having enjoyed his coffee?” The creature asked, snapping its fingers and sending the dirty dish away.

Potter smiled at the creature. “Yeah, I did. Ta, Winky.” The House Elf’s eyes were sparkling. Trust Potter’s fan base to transcend species.

The creature followed up to say, “And will you be coming by to visit tomorrow also, sir? And the day after?”

“Probably.” Potter agreed, jumping off his high stool. He placed an absent-minded hand between the creature’s ears and patted. Draco would be concerned about the chances of the House Elf vibrating out of its skin in excitement, but he was too busy being confronted with the idea that this was a regular occurrence for Potter.

. . . _What?_

But Potter wasn’t about to elaborate. He nodded at Draco. “Night then,” He swept out of the kitchen without another word, though he did nod at the others. As if they _hadn’t_ spent the last seven years of their schooling at each other’s throats. As if Potter _hadn’t_ ever lost his temper in his life. As if Potter _hadn’t_ left him bleeding out in the bathrooms, or Draco _hadn’t_ been half-way through sending a _Crucio_ at him, as if Potter _hadn’t_ pulled him from a burning room and Pansy _hadn’t_ shrieked for Potter to be given to the Dark Lord to save her own skin.

He was simply there, and then he wasn’t, and the Elves were bustling about and bringing Draco his dinner, and if there wasn’t a tingling-hollow-ringing sensation coursing throughout Draco’s body, it would have been like Potter wasn’t there at all tonight.

Pansy grabbed him by the elbow and pulled him towards the table, pushing a plate of food in front of him when he didn’t move to grab it by himself.

Blaise collapsed in the seat beside him with a groan stuck in his throat.

“Merlin, that Potter’s a freak.” He muttered darkly, stabbing his potatoes viciously. “Who does he think he is, judging us like that? He has no right, acting like he’s better than us just because—”

Draco blinked himself out of his . . . whatever it was, to twist in his seat and stare at Blaise in shock. “You think _that_ was Potter lording himself over us?” He could have laughed at the idea. The only reason he _didn’t_ is because Pansy seemed to believe it too, with the way she was glaring brutal murder at her corn cob.

Draco shook his head, still feeling a bit disconnected and — yeah, there it was, that _robbed_ feeling, as if something had been _taken away_ from him during that interaction. “That wasn’t Potter being an arrogant prat! That wasn’t even a _hostile_ Potter, in fact!”

Pansy cringed. “But the way he ignored us— _me_ —you’re saying that _wasn’t_ . . . ”

“Yes, that’s _exactly what I’m saying._ ”

“I don’t know, Draco—”

“ _I do_ , Blaise,” Draco cut off, feeling oddly defensive, before shaking his head sharply. He curled his fingers tightly around his silver fork and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “And I’m _telling_ you — that Potter was almost . . . _cordial_.”

They still looked dubious.

Draco sighed. “Trust me. If Potter doesn’t like you, he’s perfectly verbal about it. Passive-aggressive silences are not his thing.”

“. . . “ Said Blaise, eyeing Draco like he was an unknown Potions ingredient. “With how offended you are . . . it’s easy to misunderstand. But then if what you say is true and that was Potter being polite, then what has you so flat-footed, hm?”

Draco splutters. And isn’t really sure why. It seems to amuse his horrible terrible friends though. This is not as much as a relief as others would think it is.

“Well, Draco?” Pansy leaned forward, eyes bright. “Oh. Oh, no, _I_ know what it is. Could it be . . . is this the first time Potter’s ever been decent to you? Do you not know how to react? My, it must have disappointed you when he didn’t throw a tantrum over your pointy face.”

Draco scowled and said, “Eat your thrice-damned potatoes, Parkinson.”

Pansy crowed in triumph. “I got it right! Didn’t I?” Draco didn’t dignify that with an answer which seemed to be good enough for _Blaise_ to lose himself to hysterics. It was only when they began to re-enact his and Potter’s most famous quarrels that Draco groaned and decided to ignore them.

Instead of listening to their rubbish, he stabbed into his meal and proceeded to fill his mouth with food so he didn’t have to speak. He chewed furiously without bothering to taste anything before the food melted on his tongue in an explosion of sweet pastry. He recognized the taste of the pie instantly, and looked down at his plate to see a slice of apple and rhubarb looking up at him.

He scowls, again.

Of course that’s what it is.

Fucking Potter.

 

\V/

 

After that shitshow, Draco resolved to avoid the kitchens at all costs. He sat at the Eight Year table for breakfast, lunch and dinner for as long as he could stand the glares and hissed whispers, and then he showed up at meal times early to snatch an apple or something and ate it behind the Qudditch sheds with a book open on his lap.

For the most part, this seemed to work for him, until two weeks had passed and he entered the Slytherin Common Room only to be ambushed by _Crabbe_ , of all people.

“Wha—hey! No! Vince, _down_!”

Vince did the opposite of what Draco haughtily demanded and shifted him mid-air so Draco would be easier to hold. Draco had always been rather pointy, his elbows _especially_ sharp, so he wriggled around as much as he could to make this experience just as uncomfortable for Vince as it was for him. However, Vince did not loosen his hold on him, easy carrying him up two flights of stairs without breaking a sweat.

Draco went limp in his grip, resigned. He was grateful that Vince had chosen a time to ambush him when the hallways were practically deserted.

“Where are we going, Vince?”

“Kitchens.” Vince immediately replied. Draco went the opposite of limp. “You’re too skinny.”

“ _Too skinny_ —Vince, you barbaric oaf, I’ve always been this thin! Put me down!”

Vince had a whiny tone in his voice when he said, “You’ll just _run away_.”

Draco _had_ planned to run away, but now, _Merlin damn it he hated having morals,_ he was reconsidering it.

“No I won’t.” He lied, mentally calculating how fast he would have to run to avoid Vince’s initial response to a moving prey; which was to say, ‘catch them’. All he had to do was escape towards the Charms classroom. The hallways were a maze on that floor and Vince hadn’t the need to memorize any of that when he had _Greg_ to do it for him—

And suddenly, just like that, Draco knew he _wouldn’t_ run away.

Vince reluctantly dropped him to the ground. Draco was hit by a wave of dizziness and stumbled, catching himself against the wall. Vince dogged his steps the entire way. “Draco?” He asked in concern.

Draco breathed through the black spots in his vision.

“Okay,” He muttered, before clicking his tongue and straightening up. “Okay. How far away are we from the kitchens?”

Vince smiled. “Does this mean you’ll eat?”

“. . . Maybe I _have_ been lax towards my health lately,”

“Great!” Vince grabbed Draco’s thin shoulders with his meaty hands. Under his touch, Draco’s gawkiness stood out. Draco could feel every knob and bone of his shoulder and collarbone. He didn’t enjoy it. “We aren’t far at all! You’ll see, Draco, you’ll see how much better you feel once you eat. Food makes everything better,”

“That’s because you and Greg are—” Draco stopped, swallowing uncomfortably. He sidelong glanced at Vince, who was no longer smiling, but didn’t look visibly upset either. He was staring ahead blankly. Feeling awkward, Draco patted Vince’s shoulder and murmured, “Sorry, Vince.”

Vince looked sullenly at his shoes. “It’s okay,” He muttered, sniffling dryly, “Look, we’re here,”

Indeed, they had made it to the kitchens. Draco let Vince tickle the pear and came up beside him.

Vince looked into the kitchen and made a sound. “Hello, Potter.” He said, rather pleasantly, actually.

Draco felt his heart stop and race at the same time. He peaked out from behind Vince, and — yes, there he was, bedraggled hair and bare-foot, nursing a steaming mug and ruining Draco’s pleasant night.

Potter gave Vince a small crooked smile. “Crabbe. Malfoy.”

Draco _did not_ jump. “Potter,” He returned, cool as a cucumber.

Potter nodded to himself like that was _his_ duty done, and went back to hunching over his mug, sipping at it sporadically. For the most part, he just sat there staring into space. Vince seemed to bore with watching Potter quicker than Draco had ever managed and started towards a House Elf to demand a ‘nice meal for Draco because he hasn’t been eating well lately and he’s all skin and bones, chop chop!’

Draco was reluctantly amused by Vince’s behaviour and allowed himself to be pushed into a chair by the now very concerned House Elves, remembering belatedly that that put him on the other side from Potter. Well, too late now. He couldn’t just get up and move, Potter would think he’d _won_ something, and Draco couldn’t have the big-headed fool thinking that, now could he?

He was fully prepared to tensely sit there the entire meal in silence.

Potter, however, couldn’t be less interested in awkward silences: he placed his mug on the table and stared intently at Draco. “You aren’t eating well?” He asked, frown pulling at his lips.

Draco stared back, at a loss for words.

It took him a bit to find them again. He sneered. “I don’t recall this being any of your business, Potter.”

He waited for the offended retort and _didn’t get it._ “Crabbe’s right, you _are_ practically skin and bones. You look like a stiff wind’ll bowl you over.”

“Did I _ask_ for your opinion?”

“No, you didn’t,” Potter said mildly, “You don’t look healthy.”

Draco squinted. “Oh, come off it, Potter, as if you care about my health! But seeing as _you_ get to be so curious about _my_ health, I think it’s fair if I return the favour — thank you, Vince,” This was to Vince, who had pointedly placed a stacked plate in front of him and poked Draco with the blunt side of a fork. Potter looked a mix between amused and cautious and too tired to deal with Draco’s oh-so-inconvenient-emotions. Well, tough. Draco wasn’t exactly offering up choices here. He leans forward and snapped, “What’s wrong with _you_?”

Potter seemed genuinely taken aback by that.

“Me?” He cleared his throat, scrambled for words, and then decided to stare at Draco dumbly. This was not a new tactic for Potter. “Nothing’s wrong with me.”

Lying. Of course he was lying! It felt a bit like success, hearing that. Even after all this, Perfect Saint Potter wasn’t _too_ golden to tell the truth _all_ the time. Take that, Prophet.

“If you’re going to be like that then nothing is wrong with me either,” Draco tossed his loose hair out of his face and dug into his meal. Potter made an indignant face. Draco waited in anticipation for the biting retort, multiple replies already rushing through his mind, tongue ready, when Potter seemed to deflate in his seat. He brought the cup to his lips and looked away.

Draco glowered.

The food settled warmly in his stomach. Two bites later and he already felt better, healthier, and made sure to whisper a ‘thank you’ to Vince. He took a moment to reflect that perhaps he was being too soft with Vince lately, but then thought, ‘so what?’, when Vince beamed at him for the gratitude.

  “We should do this more often,” Vince pondered, looking at the ceiling, deep in thought.

“Do what? Eat in the kitchens?” Draco accidentally sent a glance in Potter’s direction. With zero subtlety, Potter was staring at them with something almost like fascination in his gaze.

Draco’s glare screamed, _Mind your own business!_

Potter’s said, _I don’t know how to make a simple Headache Potion let alone understand what your superior mind is attempting to psionically communicate!_

Typical Potter.

“Yeah,” Vince nodded eagerly, “It’s nice here. Quiet. The Elves are nice,” Draco had a split-second thought along the lines of ‘Lord Crabbe wouldn’t like to hear that’ before it disappeared because _Vince’s_ father was in Azkaban, probably in the cell right next to _Draco’s_ father. Vince continued to say, “And there’s no one staring at us or throwing things. It’s _nice_.”

Just by the way he said it Draco knew he would be visiting the kitchens to eat with Vince indefinitely.

He couldn’t find it in himself to needlessly protest. Draco knew he would do this for Vince. _Vince_ knew Draco would do this for Vince. _Pansy_ knew Draco would do this for Vince because even though she wasn’t Vince’s biggest fan, she knew Draco had grown up with Vince and Greg, and now with Greg gone . . .

Well.

The only who didn’t know if Draco would do this for Vince was Potter, and with him shamelessly eavesdropping, that was about to change.

“Can we, Draco?”

Draco’s shoulders imperceptibly slumped. “Whatever, Vince.”

“Is that a yes?”

“It’s a _whatever, Vince,_ did you not hear me?”

Vince looked pleased. “Thanks, Draco.” He said.

Potter had tilted his head as he watched them. There was a—thing happening with his mouth. Like a smile, but not-quite. It was . . . distracting.

And embarrassing.

And _unnecessary._

But perhaps the worst part was how he didn’t make a snide comment about Draco ‘having feelings’ or Vince ‘deserving to be bullied because of how he used to be’ or that ‘neither of you deserve to have any peace after what you put Britain through’. None of that. Potter just almost-smiled and sipped his drink.

It was _infuriating._

Draco sent the interloper a scathing look and shoved Vince. “Shut up about it.” He demanded of Vince. Vince blessedly did exactly that, but he didn’t stop grinning, and Draco only smacked his hand twice when he snatched the food Draco had specifically shifted to the side of his plate.

Potter silently took his leave as soon as Draco finished everything on his plate, softly thanking the ‘Winky’ Elf again, and left without a backwards glance.

As soon as he’d cleared the room, Vince said wonderingly, “Potter was nice tonight, wasn’t he, Draco?”

Draco scowled and hissed in an offended voice, “I _know._ ”

 

\V/

 

Draco was in a private alcove in the library, being suspiciously peered at by Madam Pince, when Potter’s unusually ongoing aneurysm struck again and beat up all the functions in his brain that helped him make smart decisions. Draco knew this to be true because Potter, for some likely idiotic reason that would lower Draco's exceptionally high IQ through proximity, _sat at his table._

Draco, despite being unfathomably confused about what was going on, went on the defensive immediately.

He slammed his hand down on the area where Potter was preparing to stack his books and hissed through his teeth, “What the _hell do you think you’re doing here, Potter?_ ” Potter’s heavy Transfiguration textbook hovered over where Draco’s bony hand was occupying thoughtfully before he hummed and let it drop. It slammed on Draco’s hand, the heft so much that it felt like someone had dropped a _brick_ on his hand. “ _Ow_ —Merlin, Potter, what the _fu_ —”

“That was rude.” Potter replied, opening his textbook to a bookmarked page.

Draco was frothing at the mouth. _Him??_ Was Potter _insane?_ Merlin, of course he was, it explained everything about him.

“ _Rude?_ You just dropped a textbook on my hand!” Speaking of hand, he reclaimed that thing from under the book and cradled it protectively against his chest. It was probably bruised. Draco bruised easily and terribly, so he’d have to go to the hospital wing to make sure his hand wasn’t going to turn out hideously purple by the end of the day.

“You’re the one who decided to put his hand where I was obviously going to place my textbook. Poor decision making skills, Malfoy, I expected better from you.”

Draco tensed even as he felt his face warm. He stared aghast at Potter, all casually reading his textbook and making notes in his dreadful handwriting, before taking a deep breath and making a decision. He began to gather his books.

Potter looked up with a confused look on his face. “Where are you going?”

“Anywhere you aren’t,” Draco snapped. He wasn’t looking forward to finding a place in the library other pests couldn’t find him but surely it was better than sitting there and letting _Potter_ —of all the people in the world—make fun of him.

Potter made a long, judgemental humming noise. “Running, Malfoy?”

_Don’t respond don’t respond don’t respond —_

“You know _what,_ Potter—” Draco’s impressive rant was cut off at the knees before it could ever begin.

Potter gestured to Draco’s empty seat and interrupted to say, “Sit down.” Then, with a displeased face, he added, “Please.”

His insanity must have been contagious. Draco sat.

There was silence before Potter awkwardly said, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to” — here he gestured grandly at Draco, which was a confusing and almost insulting gesture, though Draco didn’t think Potter realized that — “er, scare you off, or anything like that.”

Draco settled on ‘offended’ as his primary emotion. “You don’t scare me, Potter,” He scoffed derisively. And then he realized he couldn’t leave it at that and launched into a breathless rant: “You’re short and your hair is a mess and your handwriting is disgraceful and your knees are knobbly and your scar infuriates me on a fundamental level; your wand work is wretched and you killed the Dark Lord with a First Year spell and an unhealthy amount of luck. Potter, you aren’t scary. I’m not scared of you.”

Draco was perhaps 68% scared of Potter on an average day.

But Potter didn’t need to know that.

Except Potter was not-smiling like he knew it anyway, small and pleased and smug, and he nodded and praised, “Yes, exactly right, Malfoy!”

Draco was confused and not a little bit irritated about it. “What? What are you—stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“ _Smiling_ ,” Draco was feeling a bit frantic and warm—with _rage_ —at the sight of it. “We aren’t _friends._ Your smile is demented. I hate the sight of it. _Stop_.”

Potter did stop smiling but Draco didn’t think it counted if his eyes looked like that, all warm and amused and bright. “We aren’t friends.” He agreed.

Something in his tone unsettled Draco. “No, we aren’t. This has never been up for discussion.”

Well, for _Draco_ it had been, but over the past eight years it hadn’t been for _Potter_.

“We aren’t friends.”

“Why are you _saying_ it like that?”

“We aren’t friends,” Potter said, before pausing, and adding, “ _yet._ ”

What?

“What?” Draco reared back. “What does that mean— _yet._ Never, Potter. _Never_.”

And then Potter extended his hand over the table and said, “I think I’d like to be your friend, Malfoy.”

Draco stared at the offered hand blankly, feeling something heavy settle in his chest. He looked at Potter’s face and saw that it was twitching nervously. He felt a bolt of vindication right down to his toes, more than a little part of him wanting to leave the hand hanging in the air as he stormed away with his books, but Draco wasn’t actually an idiot, and he knew that snobbing the Boy-Who-Lived was a death sentence as far as the masses were concerned.

_(—but Merlin knows how long he had been waiting for this—)_

Draco took the hand and gave it a perfunctory shake. Potter looked surprised. And pleased. And maybe a bit flushed but that could have been from the almost-humiliation that Draco just saved him from. Poke at him and an embarrassed Potter blushed as pink as a Weasel if you did it right.

“You’re insane.” He informed Potter, occupying his seat again. “We aren’t friends.”

“You just shook my hand,” Potter reminded him, as if Draco wasn’t still feeling the warmth of his touch against his palm, “I think we’re maybe-friends.”

“We’re not even acquaintances.”

Potter’s laugh sounded startled out of him. The sound of it certainly startled _Draco._ “We’re definitely more than acquaintances, Malfoy,” He said with this—this _thing_ in the undertone of his voice, and Draco was blushing, he knew he was blushing, he always knew when he was blushing because he blushed with his entire body and right now, his entire body was _burning._

“Don’t expect me to be one of your embarrassing Groupies,” Draco bit out, adjusting his legs awkwardly under the table. His knees knocked together and then jostled the entire table. He grimaced. Dealing with a growth spurt hadn’t been on the list of ‘Things to Deal With After The War is Over’ but his new, unexpected height hadn’t appeared to give a shit about what was on Draco’s plate and came into town anyway. “I won’t be constructing elaborate shrines in your honor or reciting handwritten poems detailing your magnificence.”

Potter looked down at his textbook to hide whatever face he made to that.

“Good,” He murmured, low enough that Draco could pretend he never heard it, “I don’t want you to.”

It was a good thing Draco wasn’t expected to reply to that, because he wasn’t sure how to in the first place.

He cleared his throat, fidgeted under the table, and focused on his Potions text.

 

\V/

 

 

**Author's Note:**

>  _Five thousand words._ Five thousand words of what, Del? _Nonsense. Nonsense is what._


End file.
